


Salomé Apotheosis

by Nyanoka



Series: Creature Feature: Into the NZMSverse [4]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Pokemon, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Armpit Kink, Awkward Boners, Begging, Birthday Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon ages, Chair Sex, Chocolate, Desk Sex, Fantasizing, First Time, Guilt Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Armpit Kink, Mild Painplay, Nipple Play, Religious Blasphemy, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Size Difference, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tutor/Student AU, Tutoring, Underage Sex, cum as lube, mild food kink, religious allusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27463018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Temptation come in many forms, some simple and others complex.For Piers, it begins and ends with chocolate.
Relationships: Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Series: Creature Feature: Into the NZMSverse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088546
Kudos: 20





	1. Violet

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is incredibly blasphemous if you understand Christian Mass, Christian ideas, and what everything parallels. Please note that before you begin if such ideas would be offensive to your sight.
> 
> As an aside, I decided to do a teacher/student AU (or Tutor/Student rather) because of Twitter discourse on fictional teacher/student relationships...that website hurts my head so much...
> 
> All chapters are complete and will be posted on a weekly (or week and half schedule for the last two since those are double the length of this one).

“Piers, can I have some quarters, please? I’m hungry, and I forgot my snack money at home.”

Despite the soft-spoken nature of his request, Piers can hear the pout, the slight whine, in his voice, wood chair creaking as Victor leans forward, elbows coming to rest on the table and careful as to avoid the notebooks and pens.

It isn’t a particularly eloquent request—more childish, charmingly so in its tinny tone and the slight downward turn of his brow—but Piers doesn’t expect anything else, not from Victor. He isn’t especially old, eleven and soon going onto twelve, nor is he exceptionally mature for his age, neither in pretense nor in truth.

Instead, Victor is only average, both in face and in personality, mannerisms and opinions inspiring forgetfulness in a way that only a mild temperament and an unassuming—averagely undemanding—persona could.

He isn’t demanding enough, isn’t lenient enough, to inspire in anyone—other than his mother anyhow—anything but a casual fondness, more akin to an acquired taste rather than an instantaneous, overbearing love born from charisma and a pleasant demeanor.

Victor is plain, average as any child could be. No odd interests or inclinations, no extraordinary gifts or abilities, and no strange rumors floating about concerning his family.

Thus, he doesn’t understand how he could like him as much as he does, affection verging into and already pass the point of appropriateness—platonic entirely cast out and unwittingly exchanged for the romantic and sexual.

Victor isn’t special. He isn’t even exceedingly below average, inadequacies hypothetically easy to take advantage of.

He isn’t special, not in a way that should inspire him to feel as he does. They aren’t even that close—he simply being Victor’s neighbor and tutor and Victor as the odd, somewhat reclusive little boy living in the apartment next door.

He hadn’t even been his mother’s first choice for a tutor, having only been initially picked for convenience and for price and kept around afterwards at Victor’s insistence, reasons left unsaid outside of a simple, if adamant, request and presumed to be mere childish whimsy.

At Piers’s continued silence, Victor continues, voice rising slightly in pitch, “Please? I can pay it back later. I just need eight of them—for a candy bar.”

Piers shakes his head, dispelling his thoughts. “Don’t you think you should get somethin’ else? Maybe some trail mix? I know the vending machine always has a lot of those. Your mom probably doesn’t want your teeth rottin’ out.”

Victor scrunches his nose, mouth drawing into a grimace and pink tongue poking out from in-between small lips. “There’s no chocolate in them though—only nuts and raisins. I don’t like raisins.”

It isn’t a particularly coy sort of movement—Victor’s too young for that—but Piers finds himself fixated anyway, eyes drawn to and following Victor’s tongue, pink wetness licking at his chapped lips and soon drawn back into a small mouth, little, white teeth briefly visible, and every slight movement: the furrow of the brow, the slight scrunch of the nose, motion damningly adorable and not unlike that of an agitated rabbit’s, and the fluttering of dark eyelashes, flutter akin to the delicate flap of a butterfly’s wings and dark lashes more fit for a girl’s face than for a boy’s.

Even when Victor continues, voice high and not yet cracking or dropped, he couldn’t turn away, focus on anything else—not the ticking of the library’s clock, audible even in their study room, not the hum of the air conditioner, loud alongside the beat of his own heart, and not even the wall behind Victor, gaze always soon drifting back to his face and to its soft roundness rather than remaining on the off-white paint.

Piers doesn’t want to look at him—he isn’t foolish enough, intentionally ignorant enough, to see his feelings as anything but inappropriate—but he couldn’t quite turn away either.

He only listens, words nothing more than a a half-whisper to his ears yet voice sweetly pleasant in its youthfulness, and he only looks, familiar mannerisms etching themselves once more into the worn grooves of his memory.

The slight shudder of his thin chest, red fabric rising and falling like evening’s waves, the dark brown of his eyes, mud framed by tall grass, and tongue flicking outward to lick at chapped lips.

The sight pinches at his throat, saliva congealing in his mouth like old blood, and causes his heart to quicken, thrum resounding deeply in his ribcage and vibrating hotly like a whistling kettle, each heartbeat another reminder of everything that shouldn’t be, wispy and tight in a way that makes it hard to breath, harder to think.

Another moment of chitter, sound reminiscent of a particularly noisy skylark, before Victor’s nose scrunches again, cute in its annoyance.

“Are you listening, Piers?” There’s his name again, sound unpleasant—entirely too pleasant—in Victor’s distinctive hum, first syllable soft before rising sharply upon the second, tongue curling harshly on the _r_. “You haven’t really been paying attention to me recently. It’s really rude.”

Piers shakes his head, chair creaking as he fishes out his wallet, fingers soon pulling out two crinkly dollars. They aren’t quarters—he knows Victor likes the sound of them, the clink as they entered the slot and the metallic thunk as they fall—but Victor wouldn’t mind in the long run, not with the promise of candy.

“I have. You wanted money for a candy bar, right? White chocolate?” He hadn’t been listening, but he knows Victor well enough, and by the way Victor nods, satisfied, he’s right.

He isn’t especially fond of white chocolate—too sweet, taste lingering achingly on the teeth and tongue—but it is Victor’s favorite, a consequence of both his age and his proclivities.

Victor almost leaves when the money reaches his hand, body already halfway out his chair and stopping only when Piers speaks.

“Wait.” Piers pauses for a moment as Victor tilts his head, curious. “I…let me come with you. Don’t want you gettin’ lost.”

Another tilt of the head, more confused than curious this time. “It’s down the hallway though, near the bathrooms. I’m not gonna get lost.”

Piers corrects himself. “Your mom wouldn’t be happy if I let you go alone. You remember how much you had to beg her to let me take you here, right? Don’t think she’d like me lettin’ you wander off.”

Piers doesn’t wait for a reply, soon standing up and hand moving to grasp Victor’s, small hand overly warm in his. Thankfully, Victor doesn’t complain, doesn’t question it any further—too intent on the promise of sweets. He only feels a tug on his hand as Victor pulls him toward the door, lock clicking as the door swings open.

It isn’t a long trek—the vending machine is only down the hallway after all—but Piers finds himself sweating anyhow, palms clammy, sweat proof of some unspeakable, unrepentable horror, and grip a bit too tight, calloused fingers and palm squeezing at soft flesh in some facsimile of a caress.

Though, much like before, Victor doesn’t comment, doesn’t press further into a matter that he has no understanding of—should have no understanding of.

It isn’t enough—the touch, too brief yet spanning seemingly into eternity, the scent, lavender shampoo wafting, and the sight, body noticeably slight even with the extra layers of fabric—but it must be enough. He couldn’t accept the alternative.

When they reach the vending machine, Victor only tugs him forward once more, hand still clasped in his, before stopping in front of the glass, dollars hastily slipped into the slot and accepted and fingertips soon tapping upon the worn keypad—index moving to one to zero and finally ending upon eight.

He doesn’t expect Victor to speak—he’s a quiet child, strange in the way children often are and mannerisms no longer understandable for an adult—but he does, airiness drawing him from his thoughts.

“Do you like anyone?” Victor asks, eyes still peering intently into the vending machine and face reflected in the glass.

“No, not really.” He does, but he couldn’t say that. “Bit of a random question, don’t you think?”

Victor shakes his head. “Not even your family? That’s kinda lonely.”

“I like my sister,” Piers concedes after a moment of pause. “She’s ‘round your age and livin’ with our parents up northeast while I’m here for university. Took a few years off, so I’m behind.”

“Oh.” It’s a bit of a simple reply, wispy just as Victor himself is, but Piers doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t want to, not with the agitation he currently feels, unwarranted yet still coming unbidden.

“Do you like anyone here then?” Victor asks. “I never see anyone come over. No friends and not even a delivery man. Don’t you ever order pizza or something online?”

“You and your mom come over sometimes, and we’re friends, right?” Really, he wishes the vending machine would hurry up. His hands are clammy, and his chest is tight, more akin to an anchor sinking than any cliché gaggle of butterflies. “And pizza’s expensive, you know? Can’t buy it often.”

Another _oh_ leaves Victor’s mouth before he quiets, mouth curling into a small, solemn frown, and his hand tightens, warmth prickling.

Victor almost speaks again—another question most likely by the way his brow furrows—but the thunk of the candy bar interrupts him, drawing his attention away from their conversation and to the vending machine, free hand coming to paw at the slot to grab at his snack.

Piers feels another tug on his hand soon after, Victor leading him once more and back toward their study room. He doesn’t particular mind—better this than another question, another long wait with their hands joined and he unable, unwilling, to separate—even as Victor rushes, pulling him along and toward their study room.

When they’re seated once more, Victor quickly tears into the wrapping, foil crinkling as his fingers reach the contents, chocolate squares snapping loudly and quickly nibbled and then popped into an eager mouth.

He would like to say that it’s an uninteresting sight, a bit messy but still entirely bland, but that would be a lie. Instead, he finds his eyes drawn to Victor’s face once more.

His lips and fingers are sticky, specks of melted chocolate spotting the skin and stickiness drawing his mind elsewhere, thoughts only further goaded by Victor’s motions.

He doesn’t mean to notice them as he does, but much like before, he couldn’t turn away.

The fingers are slight, well-formed, and the tongue is small, slim and lapping at the melted chocolate in a way that draws an uncomfortable tightness to his groin, fabric straining lightly, and uncouth thoughts—images of the same tongue trailing upward upon his cock, mouth noisy and full yet eager, as his hands grope at an all-too-small frame, body nowhere near fully grown yet entirely sensitive to his touch and bucking.

It’s disgusting to think of him that way, but he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. Would Victor cum quickly as he expects, or would it be the opposite? Would he swallow, nose scrunching up at the taste afterward, or would it splatter upon his face, white fluid sticky as the chocolate now?

They’re questions that shouldn’t be answered, but he’s curious, morbidly—deathly—so, notions eliciting a slight noise, a low groan, discomforted.

“Did you want some?” Victor asks suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. “Sorry, I forgot to ask.”

He almost says no then before thinking better of it. He couldn’t explain his fixation otherwise, not without some contrived reason or excessive awkwardness.

No one likes to be caught staring after all and certainly not for his reasons.

When Piers nods, Victor quickly wipes his hand on his pants—his mother wouldn’t like that—before snapping off a row and passing it to Piers, sticky fingertips brushing against his, too warm, too hot, despite the briefness of their contact.

The chocolate is sticky, half-melted because of the warmth of Victor’s fingers, and not all too appetizing, drippy and messy and all too sweet, but he couldn’t throw it away, not with Victor still looking at him, gaze intent and focused only on him.

He doesn’t want Victor to look at him, not as he is now, secret barely kept and easily revealed if he were only to glance underneath the table. It would be easy enough for Victor to find out, if the words were to leave his own mouth, damning and guilty, or even if Victor were to simply lean downward and fumble with his bag, rummaging for a pencil or for some paper.

All he would need to do is listen and look.

He doesn’t want that, shouldn’t want that, even as he feels the words swell within his chest, choking and smothering like kudzu or wisteria, and dammed only by the saliva in mouth, spit swallowed harshly.

He wants to speak, but he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know what he would say if he were to allow himself to.

Thus, he pops the chocolate into his mouth, chews, and swallows, sweetness overbearing as it slides down his throat. At the very least, Victor turns away then, interest sated and redirected toward the remainder of his chocolate bar, sweet readily consumed and wrapper thrown into the nearby trash bin.

It’s a quiet affair when Victor returns to his notebooks, chair soon scooting closer to his, but it’s a welcomed change even with their new closeness.

He doesn’t think he would be able to answer Victor, not with his words and not without disgracing himself. Thankfully, with Victor’s current work, some trivial bit of pre-calculus, he could simply write out his answers, answer through demonstration rather than through speech.

Victor leans over, shoulder brushing against his arm, and he hears a familiar rush of air, _r_ once again harshly annunciated and call akin to a funeral bell’s ringing.

“Piers?”

He nods. He still doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I…do you…” Victor hesitates before shaking his head. “Never mind. Sorry, it’s not important.”

Perhaps he should encourage Victor to speak—his mother pays him for tutoring after all—but he doesn’t. He only finds relief in Victor’s hesitance and in his forgetfulness, question of earlier seemingly forgotten in favor of candy and homework.

That is how they continue for the evening, silence only interrupted by the scribbling of Victor’s pencil and the occasional question, trilling.

When they finish, it comes only as a relief.


	2. White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temptation come in many forms, some simple and others complex.
> 
> For Piers, it begins and ends with chocolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to decide on my next project honestly...not sure what I wanna write...

The next time they meet is on a Wednesday, four days after their previous meeting and scheduled for a similar time and at the same place—a study room on the library’s second floor.

And much like before, he couldn’t quite turn away from Victor, face and mannerisms pulling at his heart, heartbeat resounding loudly in his ribcage once more and each beat a confession.

He expects Victor to speak. Victor is a person of routine after all, and it is nearing his snack time, plastic baggie already unpacked and quarters clinking against one another, jingle a chorus of sixteen rather than the normal eight. He hadn’t accepted Victor’s offer to repay him, decision both a consequence of personal whim and of pragmaticism.

It simply hadn’t seemed right to accept a mere two dollars from him, amount too low to be anything of actual financial consequence, and moreover, there is a perversity to his decision, one that he himself could barely acknowledge.

He enjoys the way that Victor’s eyes widen, surprise soon morphing into gratitude and joy, and the curl of his lips, frown into smile and then into a wide grin, white, little teeth showing once more.

They aren’t perfectly straight he notes, just the tiniest bit of crookedness, characteristic only noticeable because of their close proximity and Victor’s uncharacteristic expression.

Nonetheless, much like last time, Victor doesn’t complain when he goes to hold his hand, grip still just a bit too tight and hallway equally as unbearable as before, paradoxically both too long and too short.

Though, he doesn’t expect Victor to ask the same question as before. Victor isn’t the forgetful sort, a bit inane and repetitive at times in his interests and choice of conversations, but not forgetful, not when it comes to his questions anyhow.

“Do you like anyone?” Victor asks again, eyes peering once more into the glass as the spring slowly unwinds, faint, squeaking hum audible.

“Forget already?” His palms are sweaty, overly so, but Victor doesn’t push him away. “I like my sister and you and your mom.”

“No.” Victor shakes his head. “I mean, do you _like_ anyone? Like, do you have a crush on anyone? Like adults do?”

Despite the childishness of Victor’s phrasing, his throat tightens. He couldn’t be honest.

“I don’t,” he finally manages to say after a few moments of pause, words a bit slurred, hurried. “Do you? You’re ‘round that age, right? Any girls or boys?”

He doesn’t really expect an answer. Some embarrassment maybe—he remembers being eleven—but not a _yes_ , head nodding in that particular, solemn fashion, motion distinctly Victor’s.

Perhaps he should be relieved—it’s perfectly normal for someone of Victor’s age to have a crush—but he only finds his chest tightening once more, envy entirely unfounded, unwarranted, and unwanted yet deluging anyhow.

“Oh? Is it anyone I know?” It’s forced, obvious even to his own ears, but thankfully, Victor doesn’t comment on the awkwardness of it.

Victor only shrugs his shoulders before his other hand moves to the slot of the vending machine, candy having arrived with a loud _thunk_. “I guess.”

It’s a vague sort of statement, but Piers expects it. Most kids don’t like to talk about their crushes, especially not to adults. At the very least, Victor doesn’t prod further. He only inserts more coins, each piece entering with a _clink_ , before his fingers move to the keypad, silver buttons dirty and worn underneath his fingertips.

One to zero and finally, much to his surprise, six.

A bar of dark chocolate, wrapper glinting as the spring unwinds and carries it forward.

It isn’t quite what he expects—dark chocolate isn’t particularly appetizing for Victor, too bitter and with a gritty aftertaste—but he attributes it to another of Victor’s whims. Perhaps another attempt to acclimate himself to it?

Whatever the reason, Victor doesn’t explain himself, and Piers doesn’t ask. It’s too trivial of a question, too odd of a detail to notice and one that only pricks at his curiosity rather than stoking it.

When they’re seated once more, Victor pushes the dark chocolate toward him, sweet still wrapped and foil sliding with a _squeak_.

At Piers’s confusion, Victor explains, “You wanted to try some of mine last time, but you don’t really like sweet things.” He pushes it once again toward Piers. “I thought you’d might like this more, and it’s lonely to eat alone.”

Another slight nudge before Piers finally accepts it, taking it into his hand.

He couldn’t decline nor could he simply pocket it, not with how Victor looks at him, expectant and with head tilting slightly and his own chocolate still fully wrapped. Victor doesn’t ask, but Piers understands his gaze, his request rather, well enough.

When Piers unwraps the foil, chocolate snapping easily underneath his fingertips, Victor’s gaze remains on him, intently solemn and more fit for a church than for an occasion such as theirs.

Victor doesn’t speak even as Piers pops the chocolate square, piece no bigger than a thumbnail, into his mouth and chews, molar pressing downward upon the softening surface and swirled around by a wet tongue and soon swallowed, noise deafening in the silence and chocolate carried downward alongside spit and guilt.

It’s just as bitter as he expects, tinged only by the lightest bit of sweetness, fleeting and quickly replaced by a familiar aftertaste.

He expects Victor to turn his eyes elsewhere then—watching someone else eat isn’t all too interesting in his opinion—but he doesn’t.

Victor only speaks, asking a familiar, if simple, question.

“Can I try some?”

Piers doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t decline immediately, head shaking. He only pauses, silence bearing downward like judgement and shattered only when Victor speaks—one word, one syllable, yet heavy as any full hymn would be.

“Please?”

It’s a familiar phrase—voice high as a choirboy’s would be and a bit whining as a child’s request should be—but despite its commonness, it pulls him from his thoughts anyhow.

Another _please_ comes after a few moments, high and whining as the last, but Piers doesn’t reply. He couldn’t, not without his sins spilling outward, words pulled forward like a crest of a wave by moonlight, natural yet entirely unnatural.

Instead, he only snaps off another chocolate square, sweet dark against the paleness of his sweating fingers, and reaches forward, hand moving over the table and toward Victor.

Though, much to his own surprise and to Victor’s, he doesn’t place it in Victor’s hand, palm already outstretched and turned upwards, lines visible.

Forward, over, and pass Victor’s palm, he feels himself lean forward, other hand soon digging into the wood of the table as to balance himself, and press the square against Victor’s mouth, half-melted chocolate smearing slightly upon the pinkness of his lips.

Even as his own eyes widen, Victor doesn’t respond, doesn’t comment on the strangeness of everything or reject him.

Another pause, silence heavy and burgeoning, before Victor opens his mouth, not to speak but to take the chocolate in-between his lips, motion overly dainty and careful and not all too helped by the chocolate’s state of being, softened yet not fully melted.

He should have stopped then, played it off as some unfortunate and bizarre joke about germs, but he doesn’t.

His hand only withdraws, crack then resounding as if to make another annunciation as he snaps off another square.

Reaching forward, he presses the chocolate against Victor’s lips, piece then quickly taken in upon his tongue as if in Communion and consumed even as his nose scrunches at the taste. Victor has never been fond of bitterness.

Another withdrawal and another return, third piece only halfway across the table before Victor finally moves, leaning forward rather than back and lips brushing against his fingertips, little teeth grazing and wet tongue flicking against the dirtied skin.

The wetness jars him from his reverie and Piers pulls back hurriedly, fingers burned despite the warm saliva now coating them and chair squealing as the legs slide against the tiles. A bit of spit drips from his fingers and onto the table.

Victor doesn’t comment on it—the noise, his actions, or even simply upon the taste. He only leans back in his chair, pink tongue flicking outward to lick at the leftover chocolate on his lips and nose scrunching up in distaste once more.

Quiet and unnerving, he doesn’t know how else to describe the silence nor could he explain his own actions. He certainly understands the oddness, the inappropriateness of them, but he doesn’t understand his own reasoning.

He isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what would happen if Victor were to reveal tonight’s events to someone else.

When Victor opens his mouth, Piers tenses, heartbeat humming in his chest chocolate bar breaking underneath the force of his grip.

“I…do you…” Piers tenses further, pause bringing apprehension. He knows what to expect, what words and accusations to expect.

Victor pauses for a moment, considering his thoughts. Piers almost wishes he would hurry up. Despite his own dread, he almost wishes Victor would speak, unclasp the lock on his thoughts and feelings and bring them to light. He doesn’t want to be the one to say it, a simple phrase in all but meaning and implication.

When Victor finally continues, eternity wrapped in minutes, Piers feels a swell within his chest, bitter bile rising upward to and from his throat and seeping slightly into his mouth, acidic taste unbearable even as he swallows it back down.

“Do you”—another pause, unbearable—“can you…”

He expects damnation, accusation and salvation intertwined, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Victor tilts his head, mouth open and tongue still lingering on the _you_ , words after coming slow—steady—as a brook’s flow.

“Can you come to my birthday party?” he asks, tone even and simple. “It’s in two days. I know this is kinda late, but I didn’t know how to ask you. You don’t have to get me anything if you don’t wanna. Just…can you please show up?” Victor pauses before hurriedly adding, “My mom said it was okay if you come. She’s letting me stay home for the day, so you can come over whenever.”

Piers almost declines then, but the words catch in his throat, swelling just as the bile had. He doesn’t understand Victor’s mildness, voice and mien lacking in the concern he expects and too normal for everything before. If it weren’t for the chocolate in his hand, half-broken and half-melted, and the bit still smudging Victor’s bottom lip, he would have assumed the events prior were due to an overactive imagination rather than being actual occurrences.

Should he expect some trick, some sadistic revelation? No, Victor isn’t cruel enough for that, strange and perhaps a bit too quiet—opinions often hidden behind a bland expression or behind simple curiosity—but not cruel.

He wants to ask, to question him, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to acknowledge it.

At his silence, Victor continues, “Please? It would mean a lot to me. Even a few minutes would be fine if you’re busy.” He pauses again, head tilting. “I just really like you.”

Piers feels himself choke as the word passes Victor’s mouth— _like_ causing his chest to tighten, ribs nearly cracking. Victor doesn’t mean it in the way he wants, shouldn’t want, but he couldn’t quite stop the way he feels, blood not quite boiling yet flowing upward still, warmth pooling in his cheeks.

Victor doesn’t comment on it of course. He only looks at him, eyes earnest and asking in a way that his words wouldn’t be able to mimic.

When Piers opens his mouth, he wants a _no_ to come out. It would be simple enough, one word and one syllable, but it doesn’t.

Instead, he finds himself stuttering.

“What time would be best?” he asks, words flowing outward even as he tries to dam them to no avail.

Victor brightens at his words, drawing more blood to Piers’s face. “Around nine in the morning. That’s when I wake up. We usually finish around eleven at night.” After a moment of consideration, he frowns. “Though…if that’s too long, you can just stay a few hours or even just an hour—if you want.”

Piers shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m not busy. I don’t have to be on campus this week since I’m takin’ hybrid courses.”

Victor nods. “Okay!”

He expects the conversation to end then and for them to return to Victor’s schoolwork—what else could there be to talk about?—but it doesn’t.

Instead, Victor tilts his head, considering and action soon followed by another request.

“Can I have the rest?” Victor nods toward the dark chocolate in his hand. “I mean, if you don’t want it.”

Piers almost questions him then—he’s certain that Victor doesn’t like the taste, and he feels a tinge of curiosity anyhow, feeling budding—but he stops himself. Much like before, he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He doesn’t _want_ to speak, to potentially dissuade Victor from his actions.

After passing Victor the chocolate, sweet messy and nearly melted in its wrapper, Piers watches as his fingers carefully pull apart the foil, motion careful as to avoid making a mess of their table. He couldn’t do much else. He couldn’t turn away. He doesn’t want to.

And once again, Victor’s nose scrunches at the taste, small, pink tongue flicking outward to lick at his lips, before his fingers pull more of the wrapper away, action revealing silver foil and splotches of melted chocolate.

Another lick, and Piers finds his breath hitching once more.

It’s cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do know I wanna try for a ficlet since for whatever reason, I keep overshooting word count whenever I try to do one of those...


	3. Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temptation come in many forms, some simple and others complex.
> 
> For Piers, it begins and ends with chocolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did pinpoint my next project as well though I'm uncertain if I wanna take NZMS for it for DNHP. The former fits more imo, but I also feel obligated to write at least 1 for DNHP since I like it. I'm kinda nearing my monthly obligatory "super horny" fic as well where I go wild on kinks, length (ha), and general horniness. This time it's dog leashes, muzzles, and cockwarming. Though, I guess that would be unsurprising if you have my Twitter and/or Tumblr since I've been talking about it on there...I don't have a filter on those sites...especially the latter...don't think it's gonna be a monster length like I usually do for my nsfw sections since I just wanna focus on certain aspects this time, but I am feeling agitated again lately...

Much like any other adult who doesn’t know what to get a child for their birthday, Piers eventually settles on money in a card—plain, gas station bought, and sealed in a simple white envelope.

It isn’t much in the long run—twenty dollars and a signature slipped inside a rather plain card, peony and rose adorned cover made for an adult rather than a child, alongside a two-dollar chocolate bar, a last-minute addition suggested by the clerk—but he doesn’t want to be odd, stranger than he already is anyhow.

They aren’t related. Extravagant gifts aren’t something that would be expected, instead drawing pause and a raised eyebrow rather than praise or gratitude.

When he arrives at half pass nine, rain pattering on the ceiling overhead, Victor is the one to answer the door, still pajama-adorned and sleepy, drowsiness soon dissipating at the sight of him. A hand, overly warm, grabs at sleeve before Victor tugs, urging him in.

Entering, Piers doesn’t quite know what to expect. Balloons a few streamers perhaps. He certainly sees those, ribbons and cords tied to the back of the kitchen chairs, but he doesn’t expect the plates on the table, porcelain set with the classic breakfast—eggs, sausage, and toast.

He expects two—it is still morning after all—but not the third one, plate similarly set with food.

Victor tugs on his sleeve again, pulling him toward the table. “It’s for you. Though, it’s a bit cold because my mom made it ‘bout ten minutes ago.”

Piers nods before seating himself. He isn’t really a morning person, preferring to eat later in the day, but he doesn’t want to be rude.

Picking up a fork, Piers asks, “Where’s your mom?”

“In the bathroom,” Victor replies as he pulls out his chair and sits, balloon fluttering with the movement. His plate is already mostly finished, only a bit of toast and drippy yolk remaining. “She’ll be back in like five minutes.”

Piers nods again. He doesn’t know what to say, what to fill up the silence with, quiet only interrupted by the clink of silverware against porcelain. It isn’t like their tutoring sessions. Those, at the very least, have the excuse of lessons. He knows what to say in those.

He couldn’t simply hand Victor his gift now either, card and chocolate still tucked neatly into his jacket’s inner pocket. It’s too awkward. How would he broach that? With a simple “Here” or a “I got this for you”? It all seems too plain, befitting of his gift perhaps but not for the occasion of a birthday.

He couldn’t quite stand the silence, not with Victor’s gaze on him, toast having been finished minutes earlier. It would be easy enough if Victor were to speak, give him something to respond to, but he doesn’t. Instead, Victor only looks at him, eyes inquisitive and solemn, dark lashes fluttering languidly with each slow blink.

If it were anyone else, perhaps they would be embarrassed about staring, but it isn’t. It’s Victor, mannerisms odd and uncanny and mien nearly unreadable at times. Even when Piers returns his gaze—he couldn’t look for long, brown meeting honey brown meeting milky blue—Victor doesn’t turn away. Instead, Piers finds his gaze drifting away before Victor’s, always elsewhere—to the slightly peeking jut of Victor’s collarbone, to the curve of his pale lips, and simply to his own plate, food barely eaten and almost entirely ignored in favor of Victor.

Thankfully, the silence doesn’t last much longer, bathroom lock soon unlocking and door swinging open.

When Victor’s mother enters, Piers bids her a “good morning,” greeting quickly returned, and a “thank you.”

They aren’t particularly close to each other—he only knows her as his neighbor and by her name, Eliza—but her appearance comes as a relief, presence and voice taking Victor’s gaze off of him.

She, unlike her son, isn’t prone to bouts of silence, chatter soon coming and conversations drifting from the weather to inquiries about university and to Victor himself.

Eliza, like most mothers, couldn’t quite stop talking about her son: his hobbies, his interests, and his day-to-day activities. Even when Victor tugs on her sleeve, face flushing in embarrassment, she doesn’t stop, voice a bit teasing as her hand pats his head.

It isn’t the most objectively exciting sort of conversation in the world—despite most mothers’ opinions, their children usually aren’t interesting to other people—but Piers finds himself listening attentively anyhow, reasons tinted by an inevitable perversity and perversity drawing another tinge of guilt.

He shouldn’t feel as he does. He’s certain that Eliza wouldn’t be telling him all of this if she were to know of his feelings nor would she allow him anywhere near Victor.

But still, despite his actions and his thoughts, he doesn’t stop her even as he notices his eyes once again occasionally wandering to Victor, face still flushed in embarrassment.

When breakfast finishes, Eliza clears the plates, having declined his offer to help, and Victor once again pulls on his sleeve, pulling him toward the living room and then toward the sofa, furniture set with pillows and a few blankets.

Too close. Victor is too close, clothed thigh pressing against his and hands wrapping gently around his wrist, when they sit down. He doesn’t understand it—the living room, despite its smallness, has a sofa big enough to fit three people—but he doesn’t comment on it. It’s too warm, too comfortable, to do so.

Though, much like with everything else, he doesn’t quite know what to expect now, what plans to expect rather, nor does he know how to ask. He isn’t Victor’s age—conversation coming easily because of shared experience—nor is Victor his sister.

He doesn’t know Victor, nothing outside of little bits and pieces.

Thankfully, however, Victor speaks first, voice a bit sheepish.

“Sorry, we were gonna go to the park—we go every year on my birthday—but the rain…” Victor trails off, pause only momentary. “Is it okay if we watch movies today? I know it’s not very interesting but…”

Piers shakes his head. “It’s fine. What do you want to watch?”

It isn’t a particularly interesting answer, but he couldn’t bring himself to upset Victor, not on his birthday.

Victor brightens before he moves to grab the remote from the side table, body leaning over Piers’s lap and motion causing his heart to quicken, organ humming loudly within his chest. Despite the loudness of everything—he can hear his own heart, each beat its own chorus and symphony, and feel it, each rise and fall prickling like the nick of a nail—but he doesn’t push Victor away nor does Victor comment on it, fingers only going to press the power button.

It’s too loud, song a melody he doesn’t want Victor to hear, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t want to.

“Is it fine if we watch this?” Victor flips a channel, screen soon turning to some somber and badly lit film. “It’s almost Halloween, and my mom lets me watch any movie I want for my birthday.”

A call soon comes from the kitchen. “Within reason!”

“Within reason,” Victor corrects. “She lets me watch anything within reason. So, is this one fine?”

There’s a faint tremble to his voice, a fear of disappointing him with a poor choice, and Piers quickly nods, noise having hastened the thudding in his chest. He doesn’t see the harm in Victor’s choice.

Rather, he only wishes for the movie to hurry, not out of dislike—it’s a fairly decent horror film—but for a fear of discovery.

Victor, despite his earlier bravado and his normal demeanor, isn’t especially good with scares, small body pressing his side and warm hands gripping tightly at his wrist and sleeve. He’s noisy, whimpers slight and and occasionally leaving his mouth.

He couldn’t quite stand it, each brush and each pull, grip jerking slightly, drawing his imagination to less acceptable places.

Perhaps he should push Victor away—he already feels a slight curl in his stomach, feeling unbearable and blood rushing further downwards—but he doesn’t.

Too comfortable, too warm, and too close.

It’s hard to speak—warm spit congealing in his mouth and soon swallowed, sound catching in his throat—and it’s hard to justify.

Even when Victor’s mother appears from the kitchen and takes a seat in the nearby recliner, he doesn’t move, nothing outside of grabbing a nearby blanket, chill given as the reason and reason unquestioned because of the season and rain.

He shouldn’t act as he does, but he couldn’t stop either. He doesn’t want to.

He only feels his discomfort growing with each passing second, tight and straining and hidden only by the blanket, cotton pooled upon his lap.

Two hours. That’s how long the movie takes before the credit rolls, white upon black.

“Did you like it?” Victor asks, eyes peering up at him. Despite his earlier apprehension, Victor makes no move to change the channel, screen soon flickering to another badly lit film. “I didn’t like it.”

Piers feels a small snort leave his mouth before a noise leaves him as Victor leans over to set the remote back on the table, hand barely brushing against the top of his covered erection and sound drawing a curious glance from Victor’s mother.

“Banged my leg against the counter last night,” Piers manages to get out, breath wheezing slightly. “Still hurts pretty bad.”

It’s a flimsy excuse, one only a fool would truly believe, but thankfully neither Victor nor his mother dispute it. Hell, Victor, chattering as he is, doesn’t even seem particularly bothered by it despite the illogicalness of it. His legs aren’t crossed—the placement isn’t right to be his kneecap—and too firm to be his thigh.

No matter how often Raihan goads him about his frame, bony thinness frequently apparent despite layers of clothing, he isn’t truly or entirely skeletal.

“Alright,” Eliza says after moments of pause, doubt readily apparent in her voice, before standing up and moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll go pop some popcorn then. Won’t be too long.”

Piers nods at that, relief apparent, before he another noise leaves him as Victor reaches over to grab a blanket, hand once again grazing against his erection. Thankfully, the noise, more akin to a soft squeak than anything else, doesn’t draw Eliza’s attention. It’s too quiet, too low, for that.

He needs a release. He doesn’t think he could stand another two hours or even a mere ten minutes of everything: the softness of Victor’s hands, fingers loosely gripping around his wrist again, the airy chatter, noisy and eager, and the hum of the television, movie mostly forgotten despite Victor’s initial eagerness.

“Did you like it?” Victor repeats, head tilting inquisitively. His eyes are too brown, muddy and tinged by flecks of hazel and gold, color blinding. He doesn’t want to look for too long.

“I did.” Piers doesn’t even remember most of it, dialogue and characters having been ignored in favor of and overshadowed by Victor himself. “I liked the ambience and the girl, the blonde.”

“Laurie? I liked her too.” Victor nods at that, shifting, thigh bumping against his and action almost drawing another noise.

“Mm-hmm.” The heat is overbearing, hot and uncompromising, and his blood is boiling, agitating every inch of his body with movement and feeling inescapable. “Just…Victor, do you know where the bathroom is?”

“Down the hallway and next to my room on the left.” Victor’s grip on his wrist loosens further, eventually releasing as a shackle would. “Are you going to take long? The next movie’s gonna start after the commercials.”

Piers shakes his head before flinging off the blanket and hurriedly moving toward the bathroom, footsteps loud and most like eliciting irritation from the residents below. He doesn’t want to be caught as he is, especially not by Victor’s mother.

He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t bear it. He shouldn’t want it.

When the door shuts behind him, lock turning into place, Piers’s hands move to quickly undo his pants—belt first, buckle clinking, then the buttons, each pop resounding, and finally the zipper, metal clumsily pulled downwards.

He shouldn’t do this. It’s rude, it’s in poor taste, and It’s deviant even by his standards.

Standing by the toilet, his hand moves to crotch, cock soon pulled out from its fabric confines. It’s gross, disgusting and not particularly pleasant. His hands are too sweaty for that, rubbing harshly against the length of his cock and unhelped by the scratchiness of the bathroom tissue; his grip is too tight for that, fingers tugging unevenly; and his thought are too dirty for that, imagination sweetly calling.

His hand is too large, too rough, to be Victor’s, fingers slender and palm soft because of age, but he makes do well enough. His imagination must be enough.

He could imagine the fingers, small and unsure and unable to wrap entirely around yet wholly eager to please, and the slight frame, draped only in one of his shirts and fabric extending nearly to his knees. He could imagine the eyes, wide and wet, not from tears but from a natural unsureness, and the small lips, pale and pink and pretty, coming to press against the head of his length, slim tongue licking at the opening and lapping up droplets of pre-cum.

It wouldn’t happen in a bathroom, not Victor’s anyhow, but in his room, Victor’s. He’s seen enough of it while passing by to remember—the blue and green bedsheets, the plushies stacked on the shelf next to the books, and the clock hanging on the wall just above the bed, hands ticking.

He shouldn’t be doing this, especially not in their bathroom, but he doesn’t see much other choice. He doesn’t want to be discovered, and he doesn’t want to sit next to Victor like that.

It's not right.

It’s too warm, too comfortable, too easy to imagine a much different scenario, ideas only goaded forward by the memory of his hand, palm grazing against his covered cock and flesh burning at the touch.

Even with the aid of the bathroom tissues, it’s dirty when he cums, white droplets spilling onto the rim and hastily wiped up, tissues then flushed down the toilet.

Distaste and shame. That is what he feels when he pulls up his pants, zipper drawn up, buttons popped into place, and belt fixed, buckle set back into place.

The smell isn’t quite gone even when he sprays a bit of air freshener, cinnamon and nutmeg scent dispersing and can set back on the sink’s counter, nor when he begins washing his hands, stream rushing into the porcelain bowl and soon swirling down the drain.

When he returns back to the living room, Victor is antsy, lips drawn into a pout and expression causing Piers’s heart to tighten.

“The movie’s already started,” Victor says as he shifts to make space for Piers. “What if you missed the good part?”

“Sorry sorry.” He doesn’t have the energy to tease Victor. He’s too worried about the details—a faint, lingering stench, smell revealing, an unexplainable messiness, bits of white stuck to his clothes and missed during cleanup, and even simply a Freudian slip, words tumbling from his own mouth.

At the very least, Victor doesn’t comment upon it, only nodding again.

When he’s seated, cushion flattening beneath his weight, Piers draws the blanket over his lap. He doesn’t want an accident.

Much like the movie before, this film takes nearly two hours to finish, minutes grueling—both contradictorily appealing and appalling—as Victor clings to him, thin cotton and soft flesh rubbing against him in ways that aren’t quite enough.

He almost wishes Victor would go to the bathroom, a few minutes of relief and release from his thoughts, but he doesn’t, too intent on the television.

Even when Eliza returns and sets a bowl of popcorn on the cushion besides Victor, he pays it no real mind, eyes still drawn to the film and hands wrapped around his wrist.

He could ask Victor for space—it’s normal to want space, and it wouldn’t be a strange request—but he doesn’t.

Too comfortable, too warm, and too close.

Minutes upon minutes and hours upon hours, their positions don’t change, nothing outside of a few slight shifts, before Eliza speaks again. Much like Victor, her eyes had been drawn to the film, gaze intent but nowhere near that of her son’s. She hadn’t paid much attention to him, not to him nor to his discomfort, feeling scorching his lungs, tightness bending his ribs, and words drowning within his mouth.

Why would she pay attention to him? Watch him with severe scrutiny? To her, he is nothing more than her son’s tutor and their neighbor. She wouldn’t expect harm to come to her son, not with her there. No sane person would be that bold.

“Don’t you think it’d be a good time to cut the cake, Victor?” she asks. “Hop should be home now. It’s a lil’ pass seven.”

That pulls Victor from his thoughts, head nodding vigorously, before he pushes himself off the sofa and rushes toward the kitchen, refrigerator door slamming open.

“Careful!” she calls. “We only have one cake.” She turns to Piers then. “Hop’s Victor’s friend from our hometown.”

Piers nods at that. He has heard bits and pieces about him from Victor himself during their tutoring sessions though he doesn’t quite have a face to put to the name.

She continues, “Victor’s been rather lonely since we moved. He’s never really had many friends even back in Postwick—too shy and too quiet.” She pauses for a moment, considering her words. “I actually want to thank you for that. You’ve been rather kind to him, and I haven’t seen him talk that much to anyone outside of Hop and me.”

“Oh…it’s no problem.” It’s a weak, awkward response, tone painful even to his own ears, but how else should he respond? He couldn’t tell her about everything else—about the chocolate, about her bathroom, and certainly not about his feelings themselves.

“No really, thank you. He’s just been so quiet since we moved,” she says, shaking her head. “Victor’s a bit…difficult, you know? He hasn’t made any friends here—besides you, anyhow. He’s just not very good at it.”

Another _oh_ leaves Piers’s mouth, just as weak and awkward and the last, before Victor rushes into the room, small, white box carefully balanced on his hands, plates and utensils resting upon the cardboard, and set upon the coffee table next to the lighter.

“Can you get the knife, Victor? Don’t run.”

When Victor leaves, Eliza continues, “Thank you for humoring him and staying for as long as you have too. He was really nervous about asking you.”

Piers nods. He doesn’t quite know what to say. Thankfully, Eliza doesn’t press further. Instead, she pulls her phone from her pocket, dials a number, and sets up the case’s kickstand, phone turned horizontally.

It doesn’t take long for her call to be answered, dial tone barely ringing before the screen flips to show Hop, voice drawing Victor from the kitchen, knife held in hand and footsteps a bit too quick, pace drawing a light scolding from his mother.

Piers doesn’t really have an opinion on Hop, nothing outside of the superficial—too loud, extroverted nature obvious, and hair a bit funny, haircut reminiscent of an artichoke.

After a few more moments of chatter, Eliza interrupts, voice gentle and unhurried.

“Do you want to cut the cake now, Victor? Sing ‘Happy Birthday’? Hop has his piano lessons tomorrow, and he’s probably tired from soccer practice.” She turns to face the screen. “Your mother probably wants you in bed as well. You have to meet your brother tomorrow at the train station at five.”

Mirroring Hop’s expression, Victor makes a little _oh_ before he nods, a bit disappointed.

Opening up the box, Eliza quickly lights the candles, twelve in total. It isn’t a particularly extravagant cake, small, just enough to feed two or perhaps three people depending on appetite, and noticeably handmade, raspberry buttercream icing spread just the tiniest bit uneven and _Happy Birthday_ iced on in a different color.

The song doesn’t take long—it’s a mere four lines after all—but that doesn’t take away from the almost morose nature of everything. Despite the balloons scattered about and the excited chatter of Victor and Hop, cheerfulness coming immediately after the song, it’s depressing, gathering miserably small.

He expects her to cut three slices then, and she does, setting each one on its own plate with a fork, but he doesn’t expect a fourth one, small chocolate square soon placed on a plate in front of the phone.

It, chocolate cake topped with ruby pink icing, only adds to the depressing nature of everything, but Piers doesn’t vocalize his thoughts. He doesn’t want to upset Victor.

When the video call finally ends, minutes later and only after a chiding from Hop’s own mother, Victor is sullen, frowning.

“Cheer up. We can call him again tomorrow night,” Eliza says, voice gentle. “He just needs to go to bed.”

Victor doesn’t reply, and Eliza continues, “We have around three hours left before your bedtime. We can put on another movie if you want? Or maybe play some board games?”

Victor shakes his head, and Eliza almost speaks again until he interrupts.

“No”—he pauses for a moment, voice hesitant—“i-is it…can I…can I stay over at Piers’s tonight? Maybe tomorrow as well? Tomorrow’s a Saturday.”

Piers’s eyebrow raises at that, more surprised than truly annoyed, and by her expression, Eliza feels the same.

“Have you’ve asked him? It’s a bit sudden and he’s…” Eliza pauses, but both he and Victor could guess her thoughts well enough. They aren’t especially close, not enough for Eliza to let her son stay over. Tutoring is one thing, but it’s another to let Victor stay overnight in his apartment.

Shaking his head again, Victor replies, “We live next door to each other. If I need something, I can just knock or use the housekey. Please?” The word comes out somewhat whining. “Just two nights? Or even just tonight? I won’t be a bother.”

“Victor, you don’t know him well enough for that,” she says. “Again, have you’ve even asked him what he thinks about it?”

Well no”—Victor shifts—“but I can ask him now.” He turns to face Piers, eyes slightly wet and expression causing his breath to hitch again. It isn’t quite the same—it’s too appealing for that—but his expression reminds him of earlier, of his fantasies and of his thoughts.

He shifts again, moving from one foot to the other, overly antsy. “Can I please stay over? I promise I won’t be a bother. Please?”

There’s a strange insistence to his words, but Piers pays it no real mind. Victor’s young, still unused to denial and more used to pleading.

He should say no—there are multiple reasons for why he should—but much like with the other occasions, he finds the refusal catching in his throat, breath hitching and syllables soon formed into different reply.

“If your mom is okay with it,” he says, words coming without his consent. “It’s fine with me.”

He shouldn’t feel as he does—the tightness in his chest and the prickling on his skin, akin to needles threading—when Victor, eyes eager and still wet, nods before turning to his mother.

“He’s fine with it. Please, can I stay over?”

Another plea followed by a soft _please_ , wispy, comes before Eliza’s eyes soften.

“Victor…it’s just…we don’t know him that well. Where would you sleep anyway?”

Victor’s frown deepens. “I can use the sofa or the floor. I have a sleeping bag.”

He shouldn’t interrupt her—it’s an easy way out, an easy way to avoid denying Victor and to avoid his more unruly thoughts—but much like before, he finds his mouth moving, lips and tongue moving to form syllables.

“I can take care of him—watch over him I mean.” His voice is foreign to his own ears, too even yet entirely strained. “I have a guest room for when my sister comes—furnished and everythin’. He can sleep there.”

It’s awkward, perhaps even mildly suspicious considering the circumstances. They don’t know each other all too well, only little over half a year, and he doesn’t think a grown man offering to watch over a little boy is in any way reassuring, but thankfully, Victor continues for him, “please” leaving his lips once more, syllables stretched and whining. His hand moves to tug at her sleeve.

He’s sweating and nervous—he’s certain that both Victor and his mother could hear his heartbeat, loud and damning as it is—when Eliza turns to face him, eyes scrutinizing his very being in that peculiar way that mothers do.

He expects her to reject his offer and in a worse case scenario, kick him out and hire another tutor, but she doesn’t.

Instead, after a few moments, seconds spanning into centuries, he hears a simple “okay” before she takes Victor by the hand and leads him to his room, voice speaking all the while on what to pack, what to do, and what to remember—phone numbers and house-keys.

He expects dread—that would be normal all things considering—but surprisingly, it doesn’t come.

Instead, he only feels a peculiar joy, horrid in its appearance, emotion swelling from within his breast, and thrumming loudly within his veins alongside the rushing blood.

By itself, it would be horrific, but it is the second feeling, the second thought, that brings him the most terror.

He doesn’t loathe that feeling entirely as he should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been feelin' rather down lately honestly...it's my drastic kudos and view count differences again, but oh well...I'll get over it eventually and keep writing and posting. (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و 
> 
> I wish I could freely share my Twitter handle and Tumblr URL on this account though, but fandom is scary nowadays...I don't want possible harassment or a dox...honestly that's also part of why I haven't joined a pro-ship Discord yet...not with the horror stories of doxxing and anti-shippers infiltrating them to leak info....that and I can't find one...
> 
> As a side note, yeah majority of those warning tags weren't for chapter 1. They're for this chapter and the next. I can't really talk about the religious symbolism and stuffs until the fic finishes.


	4. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temptation come in many forms, some simple and others complex.
> 
> For Piers, it begins and ends with chocolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been busy with real life unfortunately, so I'm still behind on some of my other projects...NZMS Siren project (I'm at 500 words and not even pass the 1st section yet), Mob-kun looking in on NZMS (not even started), MSHP (adult/minor with age change; still not started), NZMS muzzle and leash, and Leon/Hop age down (not as safe as you think on the age gap).

Outside of setting his backpack onto the guest room’s floor, Victor doesn’t take to his room immediately instead choosing to follow Piers to his.

Under normal circumstances, perhaps he wouldn’t mind—Victor isn’t nosy, someone who would paw at everything curiously, greasy fingertips smudging against his belongings—but nothing about this is normal, normalcy tinged by an undercurrent of wrongness, soft-spoken yet loud in its entirety.

Despite his feelings, however, he doesn’t turn Victor away or dissuade him. He doesn’t make some excuse, flimsy and halfhearted, nor does he distance himself from him. Instead, they’re merely seated across from each other—he sitting upon his bed and Victor in the seat across from him, chair turned to face him and cherrywood back nearly pressing against the edge of his desk.

He wishes Victor would speak, break the silence and the awkwardness first. It’s too quiet, worries incited and swirling unbidden, and too warm, heat undiscouraged by the running fan and only goaded forward by Victor’s gaze, eyes focused solely on him and oddly contemplative, thoughts inscrutable compared to his own.

He couldn’t quite meet Victor’s gaze, not with the state of his own thoughts and not with his own inclinations, eyes always drifting downward to stare at the smooth patches of skin, pale collarbone peeking from beneath the blue cotton of his pajamas. Idly, he notes that the top button is undone, unintentionally coy and maddening.

It’s warm, hot in a way that draws sweat to his palms and to the back of his neck.

Another lengthy silence before Piers shakes his head, hands moving to take off his jacket. He needs to stop thinking about Victor and about the heat.

When his fingers graze against the card, jacket already halfway off, he pauses.

Oh. He hadn’t meant to forget about it or the chocolate.

Pulling them out, he frowns. The envelope is bent, card not quite ruined but not quite as impeccable when he had bought it, and the chocolate is melted, mushy and obviously drippy despite its unopened state.

“Sorry, it’s your gift. I forgot to give it you earlier.” He doesn’t really understand the reasoning for his explanation. Victor hadn’t asked for one nor had his focus changed, eyes still turned toward him. “The card’s still good—bit bent though—but the chocolate’s not all too great. I can just buy you a new one tomorrow an—”

Victor shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. Can I have them both now, please?” He holds out his hand, palm facing upward toward the ceiling.

There’s a strangest to his voice, an odd tightness, but Piers doesn’t comment upon it. He only stands and makes his way toward Victor, gait somewhat awkward.

When he passes him the card and chocolate, Victor’s hands are soft against his, fingertips pressing gently against the skin and warmth penetrating pass the veins and arteries and into the bone.

It should be a quick affair, a simple pass and grab, but it isn’t. Victor doesn’t pull on the card, and he himself doesn’t let go, grip still noticeably tight and palm disgustingly sweaty.

He wants to turn away and to return to his seat—he doesn’t care for Victor’s gaze in any capacity, too focused and too odd, enigmatic, in its intent—but he doesn’t. He couldn’t.

“Do you like anyone?” Victor finally asks, breaking the silence once more. His hands don’t move, fingers still upon the card and upon his hand.

“My sister and yo—”

Victor shakes his head again, motion tinged by frustration. “No, I _mean_ ”—he emphasizes the word— “Do you like anyone? Do you like anyone like adults do? Like as more than as a friend?”

It’s a repetitive question—he’s answered it before with falsehoods—but it’s one that he repeats the answer to, choking as he is, saliva pooling in his mouth once more and soon swallowed downward with his truth.

“I don’t.”

He expects Victor to drop it then, but he doesn’t, frown only deepening.

“You shouldn’t lie. My mom says lying is bad.”

“I’m not lying.” His words are hurried, a bit slurred because of the excess of spit.

“You are,” Victor says, momentarily pausing as if to consider something. “Let me rephrase it. Do you like me, Piers?”

He flinches at that, at the distinctive pronunciation, tongue curling once more on the _r_ and noise cacophonic in its pleasantness, and Victor continues, voice clear and earnest despite the severity of everything.

“I like you a lot, enough to make my heart hurt.” Another pause, brief and considering. “I won’t tell anyone about it either. Just…please be honest.”

At his words, Piers feels himself choke. How should he respond to that? Should he respond to that? He couldn’t play it off as a joke. He hadn’t even been the one to instigate it this time.

“I…don’t you think that’s lyin’ too?” It’s a weak, insipid sort of question and reply, but how else could he respond? He doesn’t think he would be able to continue as he is if he were to speak in any other way.

“No, because I like you.” Unlike his own reply, Victor’s is blunt, immediate in its appearance. “It’s not lying anyway if I don’t talk about it.”

“Victor…that’s not how it works.” Feeble. His voice is entirely too feeble, lacking in the sureness that Victor’s has. “Don’t you think it’s…a bit weird? I’m twenty-four. That’s thirteen years.”

“Twelve,” Victor corrects. “It’s my birthday today.”

“That’s not any better.” His hands are clammy, uncomfortably so. “Why don’t you wait a few more years and see if you feel the same? It’s only six more years.”

“But I like you now though,” Victor replies, agitation becoming increasingly apparent. “My feelings aren’t gonna change.”

As Piers opens his mouth to speak, Victor interrupts again. “Really, they’re not. I…I won’t regret it or anything.”

Victor leans forward then and presses a kiss against his wrist, against the jutting bone. It’s an awkward motion, a consequence of their difference in height, their positions, and Victor’s own inexperience, but he couldn’t help the faint shudder that ripples through his body, warmth—heat—starting from the point of contact.

Victor presses another kiss against his wrist, similarly awkward as the last before he withdraws, breath still tickling at the skin. “If you want to touch me, you can. I won’t tell anyone. Really, promise.”

Victor doesn’t wait for a reply. He only presses another kiss to Piers’s wrist, wet tongue flicking to lick at the skin, before withdrawing, head now tilting slightly upward to look at Piers.

His eyes are wet, not quite teary, and his lips are pink, slightly parted and little, white teeth peeking.

He shouldn’t, and he almost withdraws, reason and morals barely overcoming, until Victor speaks again, voice soft and whining and entirely vulnerable, open and familiar.

“Please?”

His voice is uncertain, lacking in the certainty of earlier, yet wholly wanting, sweet in its childish desire.

Perhaps that is why he finds his grip loosening, card and melted chocolate slipping from his grip and from Victor’s, before he kisses him, motion met with brief surprise and surprise readily replaced by an inexperienced eagerness, small tongue clumsily pushing against his lips and soon welcomed into his mouth.

The chair creaks as Piers leans downward to deepen the kiss, left knee coming to rest in-between Victor’s thighs to grind at the small bulge and right pressing against the edge of the chair, motion drawing a muffled squeak before Victor begins rutting against him in an attempt to garner more friction. Victor’s hands move to wrap around his neck, nails grazing against the sensitive, sweaty skin and drawing another shudder.

It’s an awkward sort of kiss. Victor isn’t experienced, actions instinctual or imitated from film, and the chair hadn’t been made for two people. Even without his full weight on it, the wood creaks, loud as the fan, deafening as the beat within his breast, sound quick and thrumming as a hummingbird’s wings.

Victor nips too much with his teeth, motions accidental rather than intentional and lacking in that decisiveness that makes pain pleasing—too quick, sting not yet set in like nettle, and too light or too hard, never an in-between or even simply in a manner understandable as playful—and his tongue is too wet, breath and spit faintly tinged by sweetness, raspberry and chocolate.

Nonetheless, it’s _warm_ , searing in a way that makes Piers draw him closer, tongue pushing further into an eager mouth, tip sliding along the teeth, canine to molar, and against Victor’s own tongue, each motion drawing another noise from Victor, high and sweet, and another thrust against his thigh, wet cotton rubbing against rough denim.

The chair creaks again as Piers’s hands move to Victor’s waist, fingers stopping just at the hem of his pajama bottoms, hesitant despite everything. He wants to touch him in his entirety, defile him in his entirety, fingertips groping at and smudging pale skin—the soft stomach, the thin chest, and even lesser thought of places like the underarms.

He wants to fuck him, to defile him as a sinner would to a church and to strip away his innocence, childhood dripping downward into mud like paint in a spring rainstorm.

Another moan leaves Victor before he withdraws, movements almost entirely stilling as saliva dribbles from the corners of his mouth and as he pants, cheeks flushed a pretty, bright red. He doesn’t speak, nothing outside of the harsh sound of his breathing, chest rising and falling with each gasp. Instead, Piers only feels Victor’s hands trail from his neck, fingers stopping at his collarbone briefly before continuing downward, touch warm and piercing in spite of the thin layer of cloth between his fingertips and his skin.

Even as his hands comes to cover his, warm palm upon his knuckles and slender digits nervous and trembling, Victor still doesn’t speak, face still flushed and eyes peering upward, brown muddy and wet.

Piers almost wants to speak then or at the very least move. He doesn’t enjoy the silence or the way Victor looks at him. No, that isn’t quite right. Rather, he enjoys it too much—every little detail, the wet gaze and the softness of his skin, palm lines rubbing against his knuckles with each tiny shift, and every little motion, the feel of cotton rubbing against bare flesh, unintentionally coquettish.

He couldn’t stand it, the closeness of everything and the farness of everything.

He wants to touch him, to devour him in his entirety—blood humming, spilling, and bones melting, trembling, upon and beneath his tongue.

It isn’t right in any sense of the word, but his heart quickens at the thought, breathing audible and a bit harsh.

Though, Victor doesn’t pay much mind to it, chapped lips coming to press against his cheek, tongue flicking at the skin before wetly trailing downward, stopping at the corner of his mouth and lifting just the barest amount.

“Please?” It’s a familiar word, soft and almost inaudible, lips brushing against his skin with the syllable, but it’s one that goads him into action, request only aided further by Victor’s hands softly pulling on his, each tug urging him to hurry.

It isn’t quite permission—neither an explicit _yes_ or _no_ , nothing that would wholly sooth his conscience—but he finds himself moving anyhow, fingers slipping underneath Victor’s shirt, carefully undoing the white buttons, each pop resounding, as his other hand pushes into his bottoms, motion drawing a low gasp from Victor.

As his hand wraps around Victor’s cock, length lacking in coarse hairs and tidily fitting into his palm, a plea leaves Victor, “please” faintly whining and noise only heightening when fingers begin to stroke at his cock, digits rubbing against the head and the leaking slit, smearing pre-cum and sweat, as he begins to tug, calloused palm sliding along the wet length.

Despite the fervor of their actions and Victor’s own inexperience, however, hand stroking as a small body bucks, it isn’t long before Victor moves to press his lips against his in another sloppy request for a kiss, slender hands moving upward along his stomach and chest to grab at the dark cotton of his shirt in an attempt to force more contact.

Much like before, it’s awkward, kiss uneven, overly messy, as they press against one another, Victor eager and rutting into his stroking hand, motions more about contact than about any sexual finesse or playfulness, and awkwardness only further accentuated by their differences in heights and positions—Victor too petite in stature, head tilted back to compensate for the variance, and Piers too tall, loose hair curtaining them as he leans downward.

Victor shudders as Piers’s hand moves from the buttons of his pajamas and toward his nipples, fingers soon pulling at the dark nubs and lightly twisting them in-between his nails and causing the grip on his shirt to tighten, eager and pulling him closer.

Leaning forward, chair creaking, Piers nips at Victor’s bottom lip, motion sharp and quick and drawing another noise, before he withdraws, tongue leaving with a wet _pop_. At his actions, Victor almost whines, noise swiftly turning into a moan, until Piers shifts, hand giving a particularly rough tug, and licks at his lips, tongue then trailing downward—pass his chin, down his neck and toward his collarbone, briefly stopping to coat it in spit, and mouth finally settling around his nipple, sucking and occasionally rolling it in-between his tongue and teeth. Between the fingers of his hand, he rolls Victor’s other nipple, nails pinching lightly, pulling, and occasionally pressing into the slit.

“M-more. Keep g-going. P-please.” Victor’s words come as a murmur, soft awkwardness drawing a groan from Piers and causing his pants to tighten further, uncomfortable and nearly unmanageable.

He wants to take care of it—it’s unpleasant, especially with Victor so close to him—but he also doesn’t want to stop touching Victor or for the noise to stop, whimpers and gasps stilling.

Though, he doesn’t quite know what to expect when Victor’s grip loosens, hands sliding downward, until he feels a tug on his belt, slender fingers clumsily undoing his belt, buckle clicking as Victor pulls the leather strap out. The buttons of his pants follow, zipper jerked downward and relief coming.

Even with the layer between Victor’s fingers and his cock, he feels his breath catching again at the touch, vibrations coaxing another noise from Victor.

He wants to buck against Victor’s hand—it’s only natural that he would want to, desire and tension intermingling—but he doesn’t want to hurry Victor, discomfort him. His hands are already trembling, nervousness obvious even as they continue to rest upon his cock, outline noticeably visible from the cloth confines.

“I-It’s fine,” Victor says, breath ragged and face flushing. “I c-can do it.”

Whether Victor’s words are to convince Piers or himself, it doesn’t quite matter, not when his hands move to the hem of his boxers, pulling them down to reveal an erect cock and fingers just barely able to wrap around the length.

At Victor’s actions, a groan involuntarily leaves his mouth. He couldn’t quite help himself, not with the softness of Victor’s fingers and his panting, soft noise interspersed with the fan’s humming.

Though, much like with his kisses, Victor’s strokes aren’t quite even. He’s too inexperienced for that, strokes either too quick or too slow and grip unpleasantly tight in a way that spoke to inexperience rather than to purpose.

It isn’t wholly enjoyable, but he couldn’t say that he dislikes the sensation either. Victor is too sincere for that, earnestness apparent in his efforts.

Swirling briefly around Victor’s nipple, Piers’s tongue trails to his side before prodding at his underarm, action drawing a light squeak from Victor, half-moan and half-laugh owing to his ticklishness.

There isn’t much of a taste or smell to the area, nothing outside of a tinge of salt, sweat, a bit of soapy deodorant, bits of white quickly spit out to the side, and faint lavender, scent spoiled by sweat and sex. There isn’t even any hair yet, a consequence of age rather than shaving, only smooth skin, flesh soon wetted by a roving tongue.

It isn’t objectively interesting, lacking in the curiosities of some of his past partners—no tattoos, no scars, and not even simply hair, smooth skin a consequence of age rather than shaving.

Instead, Piers finds himself more interested in the noises Victor make, whimpers and moans higher-pitched and breathier than their predecessors, and the motions, hands occasionally jerking, nails digging into sensitive skin and drawing a pained hiss, noise lower and deeper-pitched than Victor’s.

Each twist, fingers playing with his swollen, wet nipples; each lick, tongue lapping at the smooth, sweaty skin; and each tug, hand wrapped carefully around his cock; draws an assortment of reactions from Victor: chest heaving and voice nosy, just low enough to avoid both ire and curiosity from their neighbors. He doesn’t want questions, especially not from Victor’s mother.

It, everything, is cute in a way that shouldn’t be.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t desire this. He shouldn’t be pass the point of regret, second-guesses readily pushed down and ignored in favor of Victor.

At the very least, it’s easy enough to ignore when he feels a warmth in his loosening hand, orgasm coming in three small spurts and with a wordless warning, small hands inadvertently tightening with his climax and drawing another pained groan, noise audible as he withdraws from Victor’s breast.

He expects it to end then—Victor’s hands have stilled and his pajamas are dirty, blue smudged with splotches of cum and spit—but Victor only pants, lips soon parting once more to speak.

“K-keep going, p-please.” As he speaks, Victor leans back in the chair, lifting himself slightly as his hands move to pull his pajama bottoms further down, thumb hooking into the waistband and action revealing pale, trembling flesh. His movements aren’t enough to tip the chair over—Victor isn’t heavy enough for that—but his intentions are clear enough, childhood willingly offered.

Though, unlike with his initial request, Victor doesn’t wait for his response. Instead, he thrusts his cock forward, sensitive, soft flesh meeting calloused palm with a small squelch, cum and sweat smearing with the thrust.

“P-please.” The request comes again, soft and stuttering as the last. “I don’t mind. I r-really like you.” Victor pauses, cheeks reddening further. “I…I w-want you.”

Victor shifts again, now leaning forward, and presses his lips against Piers’s forehead. “I don’t mind,” he repeats, and Piers feels his cock harden further, each word causing his heart to tighten, warmth searing. “Please…just…don’t you want m-me?”

He shouldn’t reply. He couldn’t reply. Instead, he only leans forward, body moving of its own accord and chair finally tipping over with a clatter, noise intermingled with his own grunts and Victor’s. His hands move to grab Victor, hand coming to rest upon the small of his back and the other to grab at his wrist, movements drawing a surprised, somewhat pained yelp from Victor.

He should apologize—he hadn’t meant to hurt him—but Victor’s other hand comes to grip at his shirt, fingers stretching the fabric.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, grip tightening. “Just please f-fuck me.”

Much like with his previous words, Victor’s request comes as a stutter, embarrassment obvious in both speech and manner, cheeks flushing and eyes turning elsewhere afterwards.

It shouldn’t arouse him as much as it does—the wet gaze, the slight trembling, and even simply the heat that he exudes, agitation apparent and entirely caused by him—but it does, agitating him in a way that causes his cock to leak further, pre-cum dripping onto the floor and onto his pants.

When he pushes Victor against the desk, rear meeting hard wood, his hand slides downward from his back before eventually settling at Victor’s entrance, wet fingers prodding and coaxing another shiver from him. His other hand moves to grip at his hip, nails digging lightly into the flesh.

A moan leaves Victor’s mouth as Piers’s fingers begin to push in, digits readily accepted into a warm, tight hole and moan soon muffled in another messy, openmouthed kiss. His tongue pushes against his, more for of a desperation for contact and for a desire to please than for anything else.

As his fingers probe deeper, Victor inadvertently thrusts forward, cock grinding against his leg in an attempt to garner more friction, muffled moans only increasing in intensity when Piers pushes him onto the desk, fingers still probing and spreading him even as Victor trembles, back pressed against the wood of his desk and panting.

Tongue withdrawing from Victor’s mouth, Piers’s mouth trails downward, pressing kisses against Victor’s chin and neck, before stopping against his left breast. His tongue swirls around the nipple, occasionally pressing into the slit—he couldn’t leave bitemarks like he usually would, circular love bites marring the skin—before moving to lap at Victor’s underarm again, motion coaxing another soft moan, noise turning into a squeal as his fingers push deeper, prodding against Victor’s prostate.

Fingers still rubbing, Piers feels hands come to grab at his hair, tugging in an attempt to urge him to hurry.

Teeth nipping gently at the skin and pulling, careful as to not break the skin, Piers soon trails his tongue further down Victor’s side before moving to hover over his cock, length soon taken into his mouth, taste tinged by pre-cum and sweat. Much like with his hand, it fits tidily into his mouth, lacking in both length and girth. Even when Victor thrusts into his mouth, agitated yet eager, he doesn’t choke on it.

The grip on his hair tightens. “P-please.”

It’s a simple word, repetitive as the requests before it, but Piers finds his breath quickening anyway, light vibrations drawing another shudder from Victor and trembling only increased when his hand, nails trailing down from the hip, come to play with his balls, calloused palm rubbing against the sensitive flesh.

With the fingers probing inside of him and the ministrations on his cock, it doesn’t take long for Victor to cum again, voice raspy and orgasm smaller than his last. Another “please” comes as Piers’s mouth lifts from his cock and as his fingers finally withdraw, digits leaving with a wet _pop_.

When he shifts again, hands coming to grip at his hips, and positions his cock against Victor’s entrance, there is a peculiar agitation, hesitation and uncertainty mixed with desire and debauchery.

They’re already far along enough, far pass the point of normalcy and the acceptable and actions entirely irredeemable—no penance, no prayer, and no forgiveness from those above and among—but he finds shaking anyway, body trembling in a manner much akin to Victor.

Should he stop? Should he continue? There is no answer, no damnation and no exaltation by God or perhaps some other divinity, nothing to assuage his guilt and his thoughts.

Nothing. There’s nothing, nothing outside of their own breathing, trembling breath coming in an uneven rhythm.

He should stop everything certainly—that’s a given, objective standard—but he doesn’t.

Rather, he only finds himself speaking, words fumbled and awkward and entirely, paradoxically, both fit and unfit for their current activities.

“I’m sorry,” he says. They’re pointless words, meaningless in the grand scheme and wholly frivolous, made for his own ego than for any genuine regret, but Victor, much to his credit, doesn’t mock him. Mockery has never been in his character after all. He, at the very least, knows Victor well enough to understand that aspect of him.

Instead, Victor replies, serious and shameless as always.

“I’m not,” he says. “So don’t be.”

No pleas, no real assurances, only unrepentant simplicity, logic fit for a child but not for an adult.

It doesn’t dissuade his doubt nor cure it, but he finds himself jarred from his hesitation, drawn along by Victor’s words and his actions, the slight thrusts against his cock, impatient, and the curl of his fingers, nails digging into the dirtied wood of his desk.

He has never been a particularly good person, temptations often fulfilled rather than resisted.

Thus, he finds himself moving, thrusting into Victor as slender legs wrap around his waist and a pained gasp resounds, noise soon morphing into another moan and plea, “please” now wholly familiar.

Leaning forward, dark hair curtaining them once more, Piers kisses him, lips met with a fervor and tongue delving into a warm mouth. Faintly, he feels a wetness on his cheek, tears, a consequence of their motions.

It’s an awkward position, once again unhelped by their difference in physiques—he too tall and fully grown and Victor too petite and not yet even at the cusp of puberty—and their difference in experience, thrusts sometimes too quick and other times too slow. They couldn’t quite keep a rhythm, not with Victor’s impatience, movements eager despite his earlier pain.

But still, he finds himself enjoying it, guilt once again pushed down in favor of pleasure—the tightness clenching around his cock, the slight noises, and even simply the warmth that exudes from Victor, enticing in a way that shouldn’t be.

He couldn’t quite stop. He couldn’t even leave as easy as that would be, embrace easily broken because of their difference in strength. He only finds himself continuing, thrusts urged forward by the way Victor pushes against him, cock bottoming out against his rear with each movement, and he himself entirely willing, excited in that falsely half-hearted way sinners often are—guilt both a façade and a truth.

He doesn’t want to leave or for everything to end and that is what damns him, intent and desire intermingled.

When he cums, he’s still pressed entirely against Victor, bodies sweaty and moving slightly against one another. It’s warm, heat familiar in a way that it shouldn’t be and presaging damnation.

Even when he separates from the kiss, he doesn’t leave, not entirely. He couldn’t, not with the way Victor clings to him, needy and still wanting.

The embrace would be easy enough to break, but he doesn’t. He couldn’t.

He doesn’t want to.

Not when Victor speaks, request simple in appearance yet everything in meaning.

“Stay.”

He has never been a particularly good person, temptations often fulfilled rather than resisted.

And thus, he only finds himself leaning down once more, pressing another kiss to Victor’s lips as arms soon wrap around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

The kiss is warm, comforting in a way that shouldn’t be—blood humming and bones melted down.

Warm, warm, warm.

He doesn’t want to stop even as he finds himself devoured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Numerical symbolism plays a lot in this fic alongside allusions to John the Baptist, Herod, and Salome alongside Jesus and Judas (though I don't think they're "clear-cut" to where you can define either Victor or Piers as wholly one figure or another). And do you notice the chapter titles? Those are the liturgical colors. There's a lot more buried in this fic honestly (like chocolate as the Eucharist). Plus, Victor himself isn't as he seems, but his final words alongside everything else should tell enough for that.
> 
> I was originally going to have this end in the bathroom in the aftermath, but it just didn't fit once I finished. Similarly, there was going to be a 69 scene with gratuitous symbolic reference to upside-down crucifixion (and that symbolic meaning). Not even against that desk, just Piers holding Victor up (since I feel like he's light enough). I'm gonna pocket that one... It didn't fit so it got cut as well. I just think ending on the apology makes it a lot more uncomfortable which is fun.
> 
> As a side note, I did get an Obstagoon plush and Toxtricity to go with my Piers plush...also got Piers's dock cover...I want the rest of his merch, especially the rubber strap so bad...still wish Victor had a plush...

**Author's Note:**

> Got to flex my head again after that Obstagoon/Piers/Victor fic...I like that one since I got to go wild on my own kinks (still missing some, but it’s nice to write what I like for once) and it has ideas and themes, but it’s not as complex as some of my other stuff...and I went with a more "plain-spoken" prose for that one.
> 
> I decided to take religious themes again since that is one of my “bread and butters” when it comes to what I draw from for inspiration alongside classics, fairy tales, and myths. It honestly just what I like to read genuinely.
> 
> As a side note, this was supposed to be finished way earlier, but it ended up way longer than I expected, and I got busy with real life and a severe emotional crisis...2020 is a rather poor year for multiple reasons...especially considering what last week was...but happy Sunday I guess...gotta decide now if I wanna post the bonus scene that I cut from the sex scene...it's like...it didn't fit at all but I'm disappointed it didn't make it...


End file.
